The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (69 page)

“Dinna wanna,” objected his lordship at the entrance to his sleeping chamber. “Reminds me.”

There was no trace of Alexia left in the room. She'd cleared out all of her personal possessions as soon as she returned from
Scotland. But the three men in the doorway were werewolves; they merely needed to sniff the air and her scent was there—vanilla
with a trace of cinnamon.

“This is going to be a long week,” said Channing in exasperation.

“Just help me get him into bed.”

The two werewolves managed, through dint of cajoling and brute force, to get Lord Maccon into his large four-poster bed. Once
there, he flopped facedown, and almost immediately began snoring.

“Something simply must be done about him.” Channing's accent was that of the privileged elite. It irritated Professor Lyall
that the Gamma had never bothered to modify it over the decades. In the modern age, only elderly dowagers with too many teeth
still spoke English that way.

Lyall refrained from comment.

“What if we have a challenger or a bid for metamorphosis? We should be getting more of both now that he has successfully changed
a
female
into a werewolf. You cannot keep Lady Kingair a secret in Scotland forever.” Channing's tone was full of both pride and annoyance.
“Claviger petitions have already escalated; our
Alpha
should be handling those, not spending his days falling down drunk. This behavior is weakening the pack.”

“I can hold the challengers off,” said Professor Lyall with no shame, no modesty, and no boasting. Randolph Lyall might not
be as large, nor as overtly masculine, as most werewolves but he had earned the right to be Beta in London's strongest pack.
Earned it so many times over and in so many ways that few questioned his right anymore.

“But you have no Anubis Form. You cannot cover for our Alpha in
every
way.”

“Just you mind your Gamma responsibilities, Channing, and leave me to see to the rest.”

Major Channing gave both Lord Maccon and Professor Lyall disgusted looks and then strode from the room, the tail of his long,
blond hair swaying in annoyance.

Professor Lyall had intended to do the same, minus the long, blond hair, but he heard a whispered, “Randolph,” come from the
wide bed. He made his way along the side of the big feather mattress to where the earl's tawny eyes were once more open and
unfocused.

“Yes, my lord?”

“If”—the earl swallowed nervously—“if I
am
wrong, and I'm na saying I am, but if I am, well, I'll have to grovel again, won't I?”

Professor Lyall had seen Lady Maccon's face when she returned home to pack up her clothing and quit Woolsey Castle. She wasn't
big on crying—practical minded, tough, and unemotional even at the worst of times, like most preternaturals—but that didn't
mean she wasn't utterly gutted by her husband's rejection. Professor Lyall had seen a number of things in his lifetime he
hoped
never to see again; that look of hopelessness in Alexia's dark eyes was definitely one of them.

“I am not convinced groveling will be quite sufficient in this instance, my lord.” He was not disposed to allow his Alpha
any quarter.

“Ah. Well, bollocks,” said his lordship eloquently.

“That is the least of it. If my deductions are correct, she is also in very grave danger, my lord. Very grave.”

But Lord Maccon had already gone back to sleep.

Professor Lyall went off to hunt down the earl's source of inebriation. Much to his distress, he found it. Lord Maccon hadn't
lied. It was, in fact, not alcohol at all.

Alexia Maccon's parasol had been designed at prodigious expense, with considerable imagination and much attention to detail.
It could emit a dart equipped with a numbing agent, a wooden spike for vampires, a silver spike for werewolves, a magnetic
disruption field, and two kinds of toxic mist, and, of course, it possessed a plethora of hidden pockets. It had recently
been entirely overhauled and refurbished with new ammunition, which, unfortunately, did little to improve its appearance.
It was not a very prepossessing accessory, for all its serviceability, being both outlandish in design and indifferent in
shape. It was a drab slate-gray color with cream ruffle trim, and it had a shaft in the new ancient Egyptian style that looked
rather like an elongated pineapple.

Despite its many advanced attributes, Lady Maccon's most common application of the parasol was through brute force enacted
directly upon the cranium of an opponent. It was a crude and perhaps undignified modus operandi to be certain, but it had
worked so well for her in the
past that she was loath to rely too heavily upon any of the newfangled aspects of her parasol's character.

Thus she left Lord Akeldama's chubby calico reclining in untroubled indolence and dashed to the side of the door, parasol
at the ready. It was an odd set of coincidences, but every time she visited Lord Akeldama's drawing room something untoward
happened. Perhaps this was not quite so surprising if one knew Lord Akeldama intimately.

A top hat, with attached head, peeked into the room and was soon followed by a dashing figure sporting a forest-green velvet
frock coat and leather spats. For a moment, Alexia almost pulled back on her swing, thinking the intruder was Biffy. Biffy
was Lord Akeldama's favorite, and prone to wearing things like velvet frock coats. But then the young man glanced toward her
hiding spot—a round face sporting muttonchops and a surprised expression. Not Biffy, for Biffy abhorred muttonchops. The parasol
hurtled in the unfortunate gentleman's direction.

Thwack!

The young man shielded his head with a forearm, which took the brunt of the blow, and then twisted to the side and out of
the parasol's reach.

“Good gracious me,” he exclaimed, backing away warily and rubbing at his arm. “I say there,
do
hold your horses! Pretty poor showing, walloping a gent with that accessory of yours without even a by-your-leave.”

Alexia would have none of it. “Who are you?” she demanded, changing tactics and pressing one of the lotus petals on the shaft
of her parasol, arming the tip with a numbing dart. This new stance did not look quite so threatening, as she now appeared
to be about to issue a prod instead of a thwack.

The young gentleman, however, remained respectfully wary. He cleared his throat. “Boots, Lady Maccon. Emmet Wilberforce Bootbottle-Fipps,
but everyone calls me Boots. How do you do?”

Well, there was no excuse for rudeness. “How do you do, Mr. Bootbottle-Fipps?”

The self-titled Boots continued. “All apologies for not being someone more important, but there's no need to take on so vigorously.”
He eyed the parasol with deep suspicion.

Alexia lowered it.

“
What
are you, then?”

“Oh, no one of significance, my lady. Just one of Lord Akeldama's”—a hand waved about, indicating the general splendor of
the house—“newer boys.” The young gentleman paused, frowning in concentration and stroking one of his muttonchops. “He left
me behind to tell you something. A sort of secret message.” He winked conspiratorially and then seemed to think better of
the flirtation when the parasol was raised against him once more. “I think it is in code.” He laced his hands behind his back
and stood up straight as though about to recite some long Byronic poem. “Now what was it? You were expected sooner, and my
memory is not so… Ah, yes,
check the cat.
”

“That was all he had to tell me?”

Green-clad shoulders shrugged. “'Fraid so.”

They spent several moments staring at each other in silence.

Finally, Boots cleared his throat delicately. “Very good, Lady Maccon. If you do not require anything further?” And without
waiting for her to reply, he turned to leave the room. “Pip pip. Must, you understand, press on. Top of the morning to you.”

Alexia trailed him out of the room. “But where have they all gone?”

“Can't tell you that, I'm afraid, Lady Maccon. I understand it's not safe. Not safe at all.”

Alexia's confusion turned to worry.

“Not safe for whom? You, me, or Lord Akeldama?” She noticed he hadn't actually admitted to knowing his master's new location.

Boots paused at the door and looked back. “Now, don't you worry, Lady Maccon; it'll be all right in the end. Lord Akeldama
will see to it. He always does.”

“Where is he?”

“Why, with the others, of course. Where else would he be? Off and about, you know how it goes. A goodly numbered hunting party
has gone afield, you understand,
tracking,
as it were. Gone to find…” He trailed off. “Oops. Never you mind, Lady Maccon. Just attend to what his lordship said about
the cat. Toodles.” And, with that, he gave her a funny little half bow and let himself out of the house.

Alexia, mystified, returned to the drawing room where the calico still held court. The only thing odd about the animal, apart
from the creature's murderous tendencies toward tassels, was the metal collar about her neck. Alexia unclipped it and took
it over to the window to examine it in the sunlight. It was thin enough to unroll into a flat ribbon and had been punched
all along in an apparently random pattern of dots. It reminded Alexia of something. She ran one glove-covered fingertip along
the indentations, trying to remember.

Ah, yes.
It was very like the loops that fed through music machines, making those little chiming repetitive
tunes that so delighted children and so annoyed adults. If this ribbon also made some kind of sound, she would need a means
of listening to it. Rather than search Lord Akeldama's entire house without knowing what exact device she was looking for,
and figuring the vampire in question would not be so irresponsible as to leave it on the premises, anyway, she could think
of but one person who could help her at this juncture—Madame Lefoux. She headed back out to her carriage.

               

S
omeone was trying to kill Lady Alexia Maccon. It was most inconvenient, as she was in a dreadful hurry.

Given her previous familiarity with near-death experiences and their comparative frequency with regards to her good self,
Alexia should probably have allowed extra time for such a predictable happenstance. Except that in this particular instance,
the unpleasant event was occurring in broad daylight, while she was driving down Oxford Street—not, as a general rule, the
expected time or location for such an event.

She wasn't even in a rented hackney. She'd grown to anticipate regular attacks when hired transport was involved, but this
time she was riding in a private conveyance. She had pinched Squire Loontwill's carriage. As her dear stepfather was giving
her the royal heave-ho, she figured he wouldn't mind if she loaded his personal mode of transport with all her worldly goods
and stole it for the day. As it turned out, he did mind, but she wasn't there to
witness his annoyance. He had ended up borrowing his wife's pony and trap, a contraption decked in yellow tulle and pink rosettes,
which was vastly ill suited to both his dignity and girth.

Her attackers didn't appear willing to follow previously established patterns in the murder arena. For one thing, they weren't
supernatural. For another, they were ticking—quite loudly, in fact. Lastly, they were also
skittering.
They were undertaking the ticking because, so far as Alexia could determine, and she rather preferred not to get too close,
they were clockwork, or some variety of windup mechanical. And they were undertaking the skittering because they were beetles—large,
shiny red beetles with black spots and multifaceted crystal eyes, boasting nasty-looking syringes that poked upward in place
of antennae.

Ladybugs were invading her carriage, a whole herd of them.

Each ladybug was about the size of Alexia's hand. They were crawling all over the conveyance, trying to break inside. Unfortunately,
this did not require much diligence, as the window above the door was open wide enough for any old killer ladybug to sneak
right in.

Alexia lurched up, crushing her poor hat against the ceiling of the cab, and tried to slam the sash closed, but she was far
too slow. They were remarkably fast for such tubby creatures. A closer view of those antennae revealed tiny beads of moisture
oozing from the tips—probably some brand of poison. She reworked her assessment of her attackers: homicidal mechanical dripping
ladybugs—
ugh.

She grabbed for her trusty parasol and bashed the
first one that she could with the heavy handle. The bug crashed into the opposite wall, fell onto the back-facing seat, and
scuttled once more in her general direction. Another mechanical beetle crawled up the wall toward her, and a third pushed
itself off of the window sash at her shoulder.

Alexia squealed, half in fear, half in irritation, and began hitting at the creatures as hard and as fast as she could within
the confines of the carriage, at the same time trying to think of some part of her parasol's armament that might help her
in this particular situation. For some reason, Madame Lefoux had never specified ladybug protective measures in its anthroscopy.
The toxic mist wouldn't cover enough territory to catch them all, and there was no guarantee either the lapis solaris or the
lapis lunearis solutions would have any effect on the creatures. Those liquids were designed to eliminate organics, not metals,
and the red and black shell looked to be some kind of shielding enamel or lacquer.

She struck out and whacked at three more of the bugs crawling across the cabin floor, holding the parasol by its tip and wielding
it as though it were a croquet mallet. The carriage seemed to be positively swarming with the creatures, all attempting to
stick those dripping antennae into some part of Alexia's anatomy. One of them got perilously close to her arm before she punched
it away. Another climbed all the way to her stomach and struck, only to be thwarted by the leather belt of her traveling dress.

She yelled for help, hoping all the banging and clattering she was making would convince the driver to stop and come to her
rescue, but he seemed oblivious. She continued
to catalog her parasol options. The numbing dart was use-less, and the metal and wooden stakes equally so. It was then that
she remembered the parasol was equipped with a magnetic disruption field emitter. Desperately, she flipped the accessory around
to its normal position and groped along the handle for the one carved lotus petal that protruded slightly more than the others.
Catching it with her thumbnail, she pulled it back, activating the emitter.

It appeared that the deadly ladybugs had iron parts, for the disruption field did as designed and seized up their magnetic
components. The beetles, in deference to their nature, all stopped in their tracks and turned upside-down, little mechanical
legs drawn up against their undersides just as ordinary dead beetles might. Alexia sent a grateful thank-you to Madame Lefoux
for her forethought in including the emitter, and began hurriedly scooping up and throwing the ladybugs out the carriage window
before the disruption field wore off, careful not to touch those sticky, dripping antennae. Her skin shivered in disgust.

The driver, finally discerning that something was not quite right with his passenger, drew up the carriage, jumped down from
the box, and came around to the door, just in time to get bonked on the head with a discarded ladybug.

“All right there, Lady Maccon?” he asked, giving her a pained look and rubbing his forehead.

“Don't just stand there waffling!” instructed her ladyship, as though she wasn't bumping about the interior of the carriage,
pausing only to throw enormous red bugs out of its windows. “Drive on, you cretin! Drive on!”

Best get myself into a public place,
thought Alexia,
until I'm certain I'm out of danger. And I need a moment to calm my nerves.

The driver turned to do her bidding, only to be forestalled by a “Wait! I've changed my mind. Take me to the nearest teahouse.”

The man returned to his post with an expression that spoke volumes on his feelings over how low the aristocracy had fallen.
He clicked the horses into a trot and pulled the carriage back out into London traffic.

Showing worthy forethought, Alexia felt, under such trying circumstances, she trapped one of the bugs in a large pink hatbox,
drawing the cords tight. In her agitation, she accidentally dumped the box's previous occupant (a rather nice velvet riding
topper with burgundy ribbon) out the window. Her precautionary measures were undertaken none too soon, for the disruption
field wore off and the hatbox began to shake violently. The bug wasn't sophisticated enough to escape, but it would keep skittering
about inside its new prison.

Just to be certain, Lady Maccon stuck her head out the window to look behind and see if the other ladybugs continued their
pursuit. They were trundling in confused circles in the middle of the street. So was her velvet hat, burgundy ribbons trailing
behind. It must have landed on top of one of the bugs. With a sigh of relief, Alexia sat back, placing one hand firmly on
top of the hatbox.

The Lottapiggle Tea Shop on Cavendish Square was a popular watering hole among ladies of quality, and midmorning was a popular
time to be seen there. Alexia alighted at the curb, instructed the driver to meet her at Chapeau de Poupe in two hours' time,
and then dashed
inside. The streets were not yet busy, so she would have to wait out the quietest part of the day until the real shopping
began.

The inside of Lottapiggle was, however, quite as crowded as Alexia might want. No one would dare attack her further there.
Unfortunately, while she had momentarily forgotten her ruined reputation, no one else in London had, and ladybugs weren't
the only kinds of ladies with vicious tendencies.

Lady Maccon was allowed in, seated, and served, but the twitching hats and excited chattering of the women assembled abruptly
ceased upon sight of her. The hats craned about eagerly, and the chattering evolved into whispered commentary and very pointed
looks. One or two matrons, accompanied by impressionable young daughters, stood and left in a rustle of deeply offended dignity.
Most, however, were far too curious to see Lady Maccon and were quite giddy at being in her disgraced presence. They basked
in the delectable shock of the latest and greatest scandal calmly sipping tea and eating dry toast among them!

Of course, such marked attention might be attributed to the fact that said lady was carrying with her a ticking, quivering
hatbox, which she proceeded to place carefully on the seat next to her and then tie to the seat back with the strap of her
reticule for security. As though the hatbox might try to escape. At that, all expressions indicated that the tea-swilling
ladies felt Lady Maccon had lost her sense along with her reputation.

Alexia ignored them all and took a moment to put her finer feelings back in order and soothe her ladybug-addled nerves with
the necessary application of a hot beverage. Feeling more the thing, she made several forthright
decisions that resulted in her requesting pen and paper from the hostess. She dashed off three quick notes and then settled
in to wait out the lazy part of the morning. Several hours passed thus agreeably, with nothing but an occasional lurch from
the hatbox to disturb her reverie.

Upon entering Chapeau de Poupe, Professor Lyall thought that the proprietress was looking a little tired and substantially
older than when he'd seen her last. This was peculiar, as on all their previous encounters, the lady inventor had possessed
that indefatigably French air of agelessness. Of the kind, of course, that did not come from actually being ageless. She was
dressed in her usual odd attire—that is to say, masculine clothing. Most of them considered this shockingly inappropriate,
but some were coming to expect such eccentricities from artists, authors, and now milliners. That said, Madame Lefoux may
have been dressed as a man, but that did not stop her from being stylish about it, employing perfect tailoring and pleasing
subtle grays and blues. Professor Lyall approved.

Madame Lefoux glanced up from an emerald-green silk bonnet she was trimming with satin roses. “Ah, she wanted to see you as
well? Very good. Sensible of her.”

The establishment was devoid of customers despite the excellent selection of headgear, probably because a polite little sign
on the door indicated it was currently closed to visitors. The hats were beautifully arranged, displayed not on stands but
dangling at the ends of gold chains attached to the arched ceiling far above. They fell to different heights so that one had
to brush through them to cross the shop. The hats swayed slightly as Professor Lyall did so, simulating a pleasing undersea
forest.

Professor Lyall took off his hat and bowed. “Sent a note a few hours ago. She has her moments, does our Lady Maccon.”

“And you brought Woolsey's librarian with you?” Madame Lefoux's perfectly tended eyebrows arched in surprise. “That is unexpected.”

Floote, having followed Professor Lyall in from the street, tipped his hat to the Frenchwoman in such a way as to indicate
mild censure, which Lyall supposed stemmed from the fact that he did not approve of her choice of attire and never had.

“Lady Maccon's missive indicated his presence might be acceptable.” Lyall set his hat carefully down on the edge of the sales
counter, where it would not look as though it were part of the stock. It was a favorite hat. “You are aware that he was valet
to Lady Maccon's father? If we are going to discuss what I believe we are going to discuss, his input might prove invaluable.”

“Was he really? Of course, I knew he was butler to the Loontwills before Alexia's marriage. I don't recall her revealing anything
further.” Madame Lefoux looked with renewed interest at Floote, who remained stoic under her pointed scrutiny.

“Everything that has happened, up to a point, probably has something to do with Alessandro Tarabotti.” Professor Lyall drew
her attention back to himself.

“You believe so, do you? Including this impromptu clandestine meeting of Alexia's?”

“Isn't that always the way of things with preternaturals? Should we go somewhere more private?” The open airiness of the hat
shop with its long front windows made the Beta feel uncomfortably exposed. He would feel more
relaxed below the shop in Madame Lefoux's secret underground contrivance chamber.

Madame Lefoux put down her work. “Yes, Alexia will know where to find us. If you would like to—”

She was cut off by a knock sounding at the shop door. Bells jingled charmingly as it was pushed open. A cheerful-looking ginger-haired
young blunt entered the room wearing a tan top hat, slightly too-tight red plaid breeches, gaiters, and a wide smile that
had the unmistakable air of the theater about it.

“Ah, Tunstell, of course.” Professor Lyall was not surprised at this addition to Lady Maccon's little gathering.

Floote gave Lord Maccon's former claviger a nod. Then he slipped past him to shut the shop door and check the
CLOSED
sign. He'd only lately been made Alexia's personal secretary and librarian; before that he'd been a
very
good butler. Sometimes it was hard to take the butlering out of a fellow, especially where doors were concerned.

“What ho, Professor? Lady Maccon's note didn't say you'd be here. What a pleasure, indeed. How's the old wolf?” Tunstell doffed
his hat and gave the assembly a sweeping bow and an even wider grin.

“Floppy.”

“You don't say? I should think, from what I read in the paper this morning, he'd be rampaging about the countryside, threatening
to tear folk limb from limb. Why—” Tunstell was warming to his topic, striding around the room in the sentimental style, arms
waving, crashing into hats. He had recently earned himself a reputation as an actor of some note, but even before his fame,
his mannerisms had leaned markedly in the dramatic direction.